


Take This Waltz

by TheMajesticTrilobite



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Dancing, Established Relationship, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-08
Updated: 2017-04-08
Packaged: 2018-10-16 12:39:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 545
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10571499
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheMajesticTrilobite/pseuds/TheMajesticTrilobite
Summary: He stares at the photographs and assorted data related to the case: the dark red of blood on pavement and the white of his notations are in stark contrast to the busy wallpaper. He's been staring at this portion of the wall so long now, it seems to have grown to fill the whole room, the whole flat, Baker Street itself at this point must be full only of bloodied asphalt and white, lifeless hands.  A voice drifts through the haze, interrupting his reverie.“What's that you're playing? It's nice.”





	

**Author's Note:**

> You'd think after season 4 one should be writing fluff to make up for it... what is wrong with me?  
> Thanks to C for reading this over for me, and to U for telling me to just post the damn thing.  
> Inspired by a comment on youtube. Title from Leonard Cohen.

The high, almost strident notes of the violin echo through Baker Street. 

Sherlock has been playing for a while now, he's already cycled through a few pieces. The texture of the wood and the pressure of his fingers on the strings are a physical reminder of the world around him, grounding. The motions are ingrained and mindless enough to be no distraction to his thoughts.

He stares at the photographs and assorted data related to the case: the dark red of blood on pavement and the white of his notations are in stark contrast to the busy wallpaper. He's been staring at this portion of the wall so long now, it seems to have grown to fill the whole room, the whole flat, Baker Street itself at this point must be full only of bloodied asphalt and white, lifeless hands. A voice drifts through the haze, interrupting his reverie.

“What's that you're playing? It's nice.”

John always did like Tchaikovsky. Bloody Russian, he only keeps him in his repertoire for John. His John, such a romantic. He smiles faintly, turning to face his husband.

“Valse Sentimentale,” he answers, and sets the violin carefully on the sofa. He extends his hand then, his long fingers beckoning an invitation. John smiles in turn, and reaches out for his palm.

They hold onto each other gently, tenderly as they spin slowly around the room together, guided by Sherlock's hummed tune, and the quiet one-two-three of their feet on the rug.

Sherlock learned to dance at a young age, and always had a soft spot for the waltz and its soothing rhythm. John learned it especially for their first dance, despite having two left feet when I came to dancing, as a surprise to Sherlock. If he were at all prone to sentimental proclamations, he would have said that he'd gone and fallen in love all over again right then.

The music swells around them, enveloping the two dancers in their personal cocoon. In that moment, the wallpaper is clear of crime scene photos, Baker Street isn't drowning in blood anymore. For just this moment, Sherlock's brain is quiet of racing thoughts. John looks stunning in his fitted tux, a white rose in his buttonhole, and that smile... his just-for-Sherlock secret smile lighting his face. The background fades away and it's only them now, swaying in time to Tchaikovsky. Truly, blessedly alone in this perfect bubble of space-time. And just as the music fades away, John leans up to brush his lips against Sherlock's, their eyes closed.

Sherlock opens his eyes. The wallpaper is once again covered with pictures and newspaper clippings and scribbled notes. The violin hangs limply from his hand. John's chair is void of the doctor's presence just as it has been for the past month. His beloved face covers the wall instead, staring back at Sherlock with eyes empty of the light the detective had so come to rely on. His strong body, always full of simmering energy, ready to burst into action at the first sign of danger, lies broken and bloody right where Moriarty put it.

Moriarty may have burned the heart out of Sherlock, but he will burn in hell for it. If Sherlock has to burn with him, so be it.


End file.
